


hot to the touch, cold on the inside

by hanniballexer



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, i wrote this so long ago, literally just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanniballexer/pseuds/hanniballexer
Summary: You gotta relax from a heist somehow, right?





	hot to the touch, cold on the inside

They’ve been home for ten minutes and Hartley (or maybe Len- he’s already forgotten who started this) already has them both naked. It has to be a new record. The other Rogues know, mostly from past experience, to leave them be for a while. 

Hartley slides on top of Len, pressing their bodies close together. He has several new marks on his neck _already_. Their hips brush with just enough friction to make him whimper. He wants him, _needs_ him inside him. He licks a stripe up his chest, one hand pressed flat against his perfect abs. 

"You can fuck me however you want," he breathes, teeth grazing his collarbone. "From behind. Against the wall. Tie me up. Hurt me." He grinds against him, pleased by the throaty, deep groan Len lets slip. " _Please_."

Hartley gasps. Somehow he's now underneath him, crushed into the mattress under his weight. Len is so much bigger than him, all hard, flat muscle and bone. Hartley still didn't understand how _Captain Cold’s_ skin could radiate so much heat. Fuck. He's like a fucking furnace. Len's teeth, tongue, lips are on his neck, sucking and biting and bruising. Somehow he already knows -or senses- where Hartley's most sensitive; he attacks those spots mercilessly, marking his pale skin. Tomorrow Hartley's going to need an entire bottle of concealer. He inhales sharply as his teeth graze his earlobe. Shivers ripple down his spine, all the way down to his toes. And then Len's kissing him, _hard_ , his tongue forcing his lips to part, their teeth clacking. He swallows all of the noises Hartley can't keep himself from making and tilts his head, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Hartley doesn't even care that his glasses are being rammed against his face.

Hartley reaches up to touch him, running on pure, primal instinct now because the logical part of his brain, the one that analyzes and over analyzes every situation and plans every action like the world is one big chess game, is gone out the fucking window. His hands never make contact. Before he realizes what's happened, Len has both of his wrists held in one hand- _Jesus_ his hands are so fucking _big_. He pins them above Hartley's head, grip viselike.

For a moment they lie like that, him pinned and bewildered, glasses askew, Len pressed against him, staring straight into his eyes. Hartley lets out a pathetic little protesting mewl as Len pushes himself up. The cold rush of air on his newly exposed skin makes him squirm. Len jerks him toward the head of the bed by his arms, leaving Hartley to scramble to keep up so his shoulders aren't torn out of their sockets. He's unable to twist himself to see what Len's doing, oblivious until he hears the click, feels the cold metal against his wrists. He arches his back and craned his neck, gazing in mild disbelief at his hands which are now firmly fastened to the headboard.

"Where did you get _handcuffs_?" he asks, mildly awed. Len just smiles devilishly.

Hartley tugs a little, testing them. They don't budge. Len pulls him down the bed by his hips so his arms are stretched almost painfully above him.

"So." Len brushes his finger across his chest, touch light as butterfly wings. "What am I going to do with you now?" 

Hartley yelps softly as he tweaks his nipple, _hard_. Len claps a hand over his mouth and grabs a fistful of hair.

"Quiet," he growls inches from his ear, voice so breathy and fucking _hot_ that Hartley physically shudders. Len jerks his head back by his hair and licks up his neck. Hartley's so hard that it's starting to ache and he actually wonders if he might come right now, without him even touching him.

Len sits up and straddles him, knees pressed firms against either side of his hips. Hartley tries to focus on his face or his abs, anything but his cock, which is stiff and big and- "Oh, _God_." 

Len arches an eyebrow at him. He's exceptionally good at maintaining a true poker face. He reaches down and takes Hartley's glasses off, not asking for permission. He does have the tact to gently drop them on the floor instead of just tossing them over his shoulder; prescription glasses are expensive. Hartley squints at him, feeling more vulnerable than ever. He whimpers and squirms as Len's ass brushes his dick. Len grins and shifts so he can wrap his fingers around his shaft. Hartley bites his bottom lip.

"Why so desperate, Rathaway?" he breathes. "I thought you were our perfectionist. Mr. Control." He strokes him slowly with deliberate wrist motions and shoves his hips back down when Hartley tries to thrust into his hand. "Who's in control now?" 

Hartley's too fuzzy to comprehend the question, his eyes glazed over with need. Len slaps him across the face. He tastes blood.

" _Who’s in control now_?" 

" _You are_." Hartley bucks with his hips and whines, trying to get him to continue jerking him off. His fingernails are digging into his palms. "Oh, God Len. You're in control. Please, _please_ fuck me, Len. I need you. I need you." 

Hartley can see the lust mirroring his own in Len's eyes. Hartley needs to touch him _so badly_ but he can't, not matter how hard he pulls at the handcuffs. Len slaps him again, not as hard, and he stops struggling. Len shoves two fingers into Hartley's mouth, far enough that he almost gags.

"Suck," Len orders, and Hartley does like his life depends on it. He looks at Len through his eyelashes, swirls his tongue around his fingers, and begins to bob his head, until Len yanks his head back by his hair.

"Naughty," he says breathlessly, and smacks the side of his thigh with his free hand. Hartley whimpers around his fingers and Len's pulls them out with a wet popping noise, a strand of saliva still connecting them to Hartley's parted lips. He pushes his legs up and apart and runs his hand over his ass, giving it a light squeeze. Hartley lifts his head to watch him, breathing hand. Len pushed a slick finger against his puckered ring of muscles. Hartley twitches at the sensation, toes curling.

"God," he hisses through clenched teeth. Len clicks his tongue. 

"Taking the Lord's name in vain- what would your mother think?" His finger continues circling, teasing. Hartley begins bucking his hips, trying to push down on his finger. Len brought a cupped hand down on the exposed part of Hartley's ass and thigh. Hartley gasped, writhing. He felt the blow straight into his cock and he wanted /more/. Len gently pushes his finger into him and works it in and out, stretching the muscles. He carefully, sweetly slides in a second finger and continues, watching with delight as Hartley twitches and tries in vain to bite back his breathy little moans. He curls his fingers inside of him, finding that delicious sweet spot, and Hartley begs in all of the languages he knows. He's panting, twitching, and keening like a wild animal as Len continues finger fucking him. God, he needs to touch himself, needs to relieve that delicious, agonizing pressure in his swollen cock. 

"Let me come," he begs, on the verge of tears. "Len, _fuck_ , it hurts I _need_ to come." 

Len just laughs. "Ask nicely, Piper." 

"I _hate_ you." He's got a third finger in now, and Hartley's starting to believe in heaven. "Fuck, please. _Please_." 

Len withdraws his fingers. He slides off the bed and for a moment Hartley thinks he's leaving him and he almost throws a fit. But he comes back, holding a bottle of lube and a condom, which he quickly unrolls over himself. Hartley watches him squirt the lube into his palm and rub it over himself, chewing his lip raw. Len positions himself, teases his entrance, and stops. 

Hartley wants to punch him in his stupid, smug face. 

" _Len_." He wraps his legs around him and tries to push him onward with his heels, but he's too solid and barely moves an inch. "LEONARD OH MY GOD." 

Len grins wolfishly. "What do you want?" 

"What the fuck do you think I want?" 

Len smacks his ass again. "I want specifics, Rathaway." 

"OhmyGod." Hartley's cheeks are flushed, his forehead gleaming with sweat. "I want you to _fuck me_ , Len. Please. Fuck me. Oh God." He's like a fourteen year old boy, twitching and sobbing, so fucking desperate. "Fuckmefuckmefuckme-" 

Len thrusts into him in one smooth motion and ohholyshititfeelssogood. 

He's ruthless, fucking him, leaving bruises on his body with his teeth and fingers and hips as he slams into him again, again, _again_. Hartley can hear his heart pounding, the dull thwacking sounds of their bodies colliding, the handcuffs rattling. At first he rises to meet each thrust, but as Len gains force all he can do is cling to him and whimper. Len is quiet, almost stoic, but when Hartley looks at him he can see in the tightening of his jaw and the look in his eyes that he's coming just as undone as Hartley is. 

Len grabs his hips and pulls them up, changing to angle so he's hitting that perfect spot in Hartley every single time and then he touches him and it's over. Hartley climaxes so hard he sees stars and has to bite down on Len's shoulder to keep from screaming, his cum streaking his stomach. 

Len's keeps thrusting, but Hartley's on cloud fucking 9, barely there. Finally he buries his face into the side of his neck and Hartley feels him shudder, his muscles contract, as he comes. He slumps on top of him, both of them hazy from the endorphins. 

Len's never been one for cuddling, so he gets up almost immediately, gets a washcloth from the bathroom to clean them up. Hartley watches him through slitted eyes as he unlocks his handcuffs, still unable to complete a coherent thought. As soon as he’s free he sits up against the headboard and rubs his sore wrists. At long last, Len breaks the silence. 

“Not bad, Rathaway,” he says with the most _delicious_ smirk. “Not bad at all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew. I’m not super experienced in writing smut, but I had fun with this! I really like these two.


End file.
